Emily Jenkins - Invisible Inkling

“I always worry about sharks,” says Chin.

“Exactly!” I say. “And my dad worries about piranhas. Every single person I know understands about the giant lizards, but Patne just goes ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’”

Chin nods and clutches my arm. “Will you come tomorrow night? For dinner?”

“Huh?”

“Come help me be friends with him,” she says. “I’m sure my mom won’t mind. She’s just ordering pizza.”

Oh.

“Joe and Henry are fun and everything,” Chin goes on, “but they’re just not that easy to be friends with somehow, you know?”

“I do,” I say.

We are silent for a moment. Chin lowers her voice. “Will The Architect of Doom and Reptiliopolus tame Lord Baldy with the awesomeness of their Great Wall of China? Or will Lord B sneer at The Architect’s ballet calendar—”

“—and mock the poor swimming skills of Reptiliopolus?” I add.

It feels weirdly good to say that out loud. Poor swimming skills.

Yeah, I’ve got poor swimming skills. It stinks.

I do wish they were better. Maybe I could actually practice or something.

But real friends don’t care. Chin and I built a Great Wall of China out of matchsticks. That’s what matters. Not that she’s a Hammerhead and I’m a Neon.

“We will kill Lord Baldy with kindness,” I tell her. “Just you watch.”

They Are Pies of Evil

Next day, Patne skips after-school. We both go home with Chin. Once we’re in the building, I pretend I want to drop my backpack upstairs and I go collect Inkling.

He made me promise to bring him over for dinner. Pizza is one of his favorite foods.

Chin’s mom is making salads in their kitchen. We kids are supposed to go play. “Do you want to see our Great Wall of China?” I ask Patne.

“He’s not interested in that,” says Chin. “Let’s stay in the living room.”

“We built it out of matchsticks,” I explain. “It took a really long time. Now we’re starting on the Taj Mahal. You can send away for kits.”

“Can you set it on fire?” Patne asks. “Would all the matchsticks light up, going down the length of the wall?”

“Nah,” I say. “They don’t have the red fire thing on the end.”

“Too bad.” He looks disappointed. “But yeah, I still want to see it.”

“Oh, whatever. Let’s not go in my room,” says Chin. “Let’s stay here in the living room! So much more fun.”

“Fine,” says Patne. “Don’t show me your Wall of China if you don’t want to.”

“Chin!” I whisper. “We are supposed to kill him with kindness. How can we kill him with kindness if you won’t let me show off the Great Wall?”

“Wolowitz!” she whispers back. “I do not want him to see my Barbies and my ballerina calendar. I thought I made that clear.”

“Chin!” I whisper again. “You are not killing a guy with kindness if you don’t let him in your room when he comes over.”

“Wolowitz,” she whispers back, “I do not even understand what killing people with kindness means.”

“We agreed on it!” I whisper. “That’s why I’m here.”

“It sounded good at the time,” she answers. “But I don’t actually know what it means. Are we enemies or friends? Are we secretly luring him to an unpleasant end? Or overloading him with niceness till he falls down? Are we trying to defeat him? And is it real defeat of Patne, or supervillain defeat of Lord Baldy?”

“You are overthinking it,” I whisper. “We are just being nice. We are trying to make total friends!”

“Kids?” Chin’s mom interrupts us. She’s standing in the doorway, with Patne’s dad behind her. “Joe just came into the kitchen complaining that you two are whispering together and not including him.”

“What?” I am shocked.

“Sasha, you know whispering is rude,” says Chin’s mom. “I shouldn’t have to remind you.”

Patne stares at us like what he is: a fourth grader who just tattled that we weren’t letting him play. I have never seen him look like that. I didn’t know he had so much as a single tattle in him.

I do feel bad we whispered. I look over at Chin, and her face is flushed pink. “Sorry,” she says.

“Yeah, sorry,” I mumble.

“Come see what I brought for dessert,” says Patne’s dad, changing the subject.

We follow him to the kitchen, but I’m not that excited to see what he brought. I am expecting a pile of strawberries at best, because Patne’s dad is the kind of guy who thinks fruit is dessert. He won’t even let Patne eat his Halloween candy. But then, Chin squeals, and Patne starts jumping—and I see.

Ice-cream whoopie pies are piled high on a platter. Chocolate and pumpkin. They are unmistakably Betty-Ann’s. The wax paper and ribbons give them away.

“I convinced my dad to buy some on his way here!” says Patne, still jumping. “Even though he doesn’t believe in dessert!”

My face burns. My hands clench. “You what?”

Patne turns to his dad. “Can we have one each now, before dinner? They’re small.”

“Pretty please?” says Chin, making big eyes at the adults. “I love the pumpkin ones. It won’t spoil our appetites, we promise.”

“You’ve been eating ice-cream whoopie pies from Betty-Ann’s truck?” I say, unbelieving.

“All the time,” says Patne. “Or, whenever I have my allowance and my dad’s not there to say no.”

“Joe got me to try them after swimming last week,” Chin says. “You went off somewhere with Nadia, remember?”

This is too much. “I went off to work in my family’s ice-cream shop !” I yell. “Our ice-cream shop that’s down the block from Betty-Ann’s stupid truck. Why didn’t you come there ?”

“The whoopie pies are awesome,” says Patne. “Have you tried them?”

“They’re pies of evil!” I cry, stamping my feet.

“What?” Chin looks puzzled.

“Sometimes Hank is weird,” Patne says to Chin’s mom.

“Pies of evil!” I yell.

I know I am overreacting, I know. But I can’t help myself. All the worry about money, Dad’s crazy baking, Mom’s anger, Nadia’s sulking—it’s been building up for ages. Here I am, killing Patne with kindness and trying to be total friends, and he goes buying whoopie pies from Betty-Ann. And getting Chin to do it, too!

A jar of Oatie Puffs on Chin’s kitchen counter pops open. “Ow!” Patne rears back as if someone’s hit him on the nose.

Pop out and biff!

Patne grabs his face and stumbles back. He clutches the tray of whoopie pies for support, and—

Bam! The tray doesn’t just tip, it jolts into the air as Patne touches it. Whoopie pies fly across the room.

Inkling.

One pie hits Chin in the shoulder. One splats her mom’s black skirt. Patne’s dad has ice cream and cake crumbs in his hair. Patne, off balance from Inkling’s biff, falls as whoopie pies roll under his feet. His backside thumps to the floor with a squish. Several pies burst underneath him.

“My family’s shop needs you!” I yell in the mayhem. “These pies are made by a mean, not-organic lady who doesn’t care about the neighborhood. We have killed her with kindness and it didn’t work. We have tried to learn her secrets and it didn’t work. We have asked her to move to another corner and it didn’t work. Big Round Pumpkin has hardly any customers because of her. I can’t believe you’re all buying ice cream at her truck when your halfway friend Hank Wolowitz has an ice-cream store right in front of your nose!”